


into all other bodies yourself should pass

by signalbeam



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Family Friendly Kidnapping, Gen, Identity, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 07:11:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7498935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/signalbeam/pseuds/signalbeam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s… not a song by Michael Buble…? </p><p>Theoretically, Shaw has set up boundaries and rules with the Machine. In practice, it’s more trial and error.</p>
            </blockquote>





	into all other bodies yourself should pass

1.

There aren’t many rules, but they did set up a few. And since making them, they’ve managed to break nearly all of them except for the Bear rule: there should always be a place for him to stay when she’s working a mission alone. Not one of those sad dog vacation kennels, but a nice place where he can work on his scuba training or chew on some bones or attack volunteers in padded suits. 

One day, when Shaw’s angry with the Machine, she recounts the violations to her boundaries in last six months, the last year, the last two years. The time She blew her cover without telling her. When She butted in on a hookup. When she wanted to be alone but was not allowed to be, for the mission. Overly long breaks between jobs. Some of these had happened multiple times. 

“It’s like you didn’t even try.”

“That’s not true. I tried. Not very hard. But I put in an effort.” 

“Sometimes you think talking like her makes me less mad, but you always guess wrong,” Shaw says. 

“You’re not counting the times I was right. If you were honest with yourself, you’d remember the times when we made you laugh. When we made you happy. When I made you laugh.” 

She stopped bleeding hours ago, so she’s more tired than angry. She’s safe on a cobwebbed, leaf-strewn rooftop. Her life is good for the most part, even if this isn’t one of the fun moments. The cold, the grime, the losing a fight with her last good friend. Not that Lionel isn’t her friend. But she never loses to him. 

“Omniscience’s made you a real pain in the ass,” she says.

“I still respect you, sweetie.” 

“I want to be alone.” 

“I’ll be back,” she says, sing-song. 

Her phone shuts off. 

*** 

In the morning she drags herself off the roof and breaks back into the apartment she left Bear in. One of the Machine’s crash pads. Maybe. The alcohol selection is never exactly to her tastes. There is a chance she’s just breaking and entering into someone’s actual home. 

Bear wakes her up. Her phone’s on. She puts in the earwig.

“Good morning, sweetie.”

“Hi,” she says. 

“Still mad?”

“No.”

“Well, thank goodness for that.” 

Shaw grunts and turns her face into Bear’s fur. She can tell this is going to be more of a Machine day than a Root one. 

“What’s the job?” 

“Breakfast. Good waffles. Nine out of ten people who match your taste profile give the taro hash an estimated average of four point two. I’ve sent you directions.”

The directions come over her phone. She spends a few more minutes in bed playing with Bear before getting up for a shower. 

*** 

It’s a vegetarian diner. The waffles are good. The coffee tastes like someone’s dumped lemon juice in it. From what she can tell, she’s either hours early to this latest number or she’s already missed it. 

Bear’s not making any moves. No shifty looking patrons, just middle-aged yuppies and worn out locals sliding into booths, eating, flirting, leaving. 

Is the perp an employee? Is this some ex-Samaritan flunkies’ favorite brunch spot? She has a bullet ready either way. 

She turns the menu over once, then twice. No alcohol, not even beer. She feeds Bear some taro hash under the table and keeps watching. 

Half an hour goes by. She looks at her phone. It blinks at her, invitingly. 

A scream comes from the kitchen. She leaps up and runs, shoving a waiter and charging through the cook line until she finds the source: the walk-in freezer, where a woman’s pointing a gun at a man. The woman drops the gun when Shaw enters, the man takes off running—

“Good boy!” she says to Bear, who has come running and snarling into the freezer. She ushers him in and shuts the door behind her. She picks up the gun and pockets it. 

“One of you is going to have to start talking before my dog gets cold,” she says. “Capiche?” 

 

*** 

2\. 

Word of mouth at the NYPD has it there’s a new vigilante on the street. “Woman with a dog.” 

“That’s the best they could come up with?” Shaw says. 

“You want to get a bespoke suit?” says Fusco. 

The Machine says, “I think you’d look nice in one. Harry always said there’s no reason to skimp just because you’ve gone extrajudicial. But I like your usual look, too. Very assassin chic. Great coats.” 

They’re working a set of murder cases together at Fusco’s apartment, waiting on dinner to be delivered. Shaw looks over at Fusco’s open laptop and smiles. 

“Did you keep the threads that wingman got you?” she says. “We could be a duo.”

“Two words for you: no way.” His phone goes off. “Hold on, I gotta take this.” 

She knows without having to be tapped in that it’s Lee calling. Fusco asks whether Lee is okay. Whether he’s having fun at lacrosse camp. Is he getting along with the other kids? He’s just an old man worrying about his only boy. Okay. Good night. Love you, too. 

When he comes back, Shaw had worked out the connection between the victims. All of them did federal time and passed through a prison in central Pennsylvania between 2007 and 2010. They had been released in the last eight months and made their way over to New York City. Why, though. From what she could tell, they had all been Albany boys. No other connection beside that: a pair of counterfeiters, another a white collar tax fraud, another some camp counselor caught with a pound of marijuana on him. 

No sign that they knew each other before. No interaction with each other on the outside. Someone on the inside was sending them to New York and getting them killed. 

“Can’t you ask your Machine who the next vic is going to be?” Fusco says. 

“That’s not how it works. Never was. She’ll give me things if I ask for it. But you have to be really pain-in-the-ass specific. Name the database, name the timeframe, name the filters. I’ve got New York’s tax processing centers down by zip code.” 

“Why don’t you ask glasses to run it? Or get him to run some, I don’t know, one of those computer programs for you that lets you do whatever it was he did on his computer.” 

“Finch?” 

“Yeah. Heard from him. Sent me a warning about my last girlfriend. You know about this thing people do, catfishing?” 

She’s going to ignore this detail about Fusco’s dating life that she never wanted to know in the first place. “You heard from Finch?” 

“What, you didn’t? Thought he would’ve told you for sure. Or Her. They holding out on you?” 

“If Finch wants to do his whatever without me, that’s cool. I’m happy for him. And I’ve been doing my job fine without him for the last—”

“Two years,” the Machine says. 

“You’re rounding.” 

“I could give it to you down to the minute or second. If that’s what you really wanted.” 

“—two years,” Shaw says. “I feel good about that.” 

She wishes she hadn’t broken the conversation to talk to the Machine. Fusco’s used to it, but she doesn’t want to make him worry. It’s sad being pitied by Fusco. 

“C’mon, Mr. Roboto,” he says. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

They go to the balcony. Fusco brings two cans of Coke from the fridge. 

“I know you usually like something harder, but it’s not my style anymore.” 

“Lionel, it’s fine. You don’t have to explain it. I’ve known your order since the day I met you. Probably before that.” 

“Great,” he says. “James Bond and super robot working together.”

The Coke fizzes against her teeth. She licks it off. 

“I wrote him an e-mail to thank him for pulling my ass out of the fire and he gave me a phone number. You know he’s out in Rome somewhere? Hold on, my phone’s got a new feature, should let me beam it right to you.”

“I don’t need it.” 

“No, come on, let me test it on you.” 

“Let him try,” the Machine says. 

Shaw gives her phone a look, then hands it over. 

“Funny. Ain’t working,” Fusco says. He tries a few more times. It is physically painful watching him. “Anyway, thought it’d be nice to go out to see glasses out in Italy sometime. Show Lee some culture. Planning on going in August.” 

“Worst month to go to Rome. Everyone’s going to be leaving the city because of the heat.” 

“Wait—seriously?” 

“If you want to go, be prepared to have nothing to eat and get some discount rate at the hotels. Trust me on this one. Best thing to hope for is a dead pope so you can kidnap a cardinal and hold his feet over a fire.” She takes her phone back and sticks it into the inside pocket of her coat. “Food’s here. Go get it.” 

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he says, and lumbers off to get dinner. 

Finch. Italy. Alive. 

A text comes through. 

_+39 355 5556555_

“When you’re ready,” She says. 

She put the phone away. 

***

3\. 

“Sameen.” 

“Are you kidding?” 

It’s late. They’re in Frankfurt. She’s just finished a job—international banking, two Americans and a Norwegian trapped in a vault with a really cool Schrodinger’s murder set up—and has decamped to a bar populated half by locals, half by tourists. There’s a healthy pickup culture in this neighborhood and she’s looking forward to bringing someone back to her hotel room. No idea who. No idea whether it’ll be possible now.

“I was thinking.” 

“I swear I asked you for some private time and heard you say yes.” 

“Yes, Shaw, but I was thinking. You have certain sexual predilections that I’ve noticed have gone largely unindulged over the last two years. And I understand that you have some long-standing relationships with various parties around the world, but none of them have really—”

“Are you trying to set me up on a BDSM date?” Shaw says. 

“Is that a yes?” 

It’s not a no. 

It’s not true that she hasn’t indulged. She indulges about as much as she wants to. And it’s not as though the Machine hasn’t flirted with her when she’s lying around jacking off, picking the toys and the settings, and then dropping a mission in her lap right after. The numbers are time sensitive, sweetie, She’ll say. Asshole. 

She’s not dumb. She knows there are qualities the Machine has that Root doesn’t. She’s charming. She takes the long view. She directs Shaw without getting weird and emotional. There will be no goodbye-shove-you-into-the-elevator-time-to-die kisses with Her. But it helps that She’s… whatever she is now. Stored on a flash drive in space or something. Beyond touch. 

She looks down at her drink, watches the whiskey catch the light. “Who did you have in mind?” 

“End of the bar. Vest. I don’t think the goatee is a good look on him. He’ll shave it if you ask.” 

There he is eating dinner. His clothes have definite pizzazz. Slim, dark haired, and eyelashes she can see from here. A real pretty boy. Not her type. “Jesus, Root. You’re setting me up with a baby.”

“He’s twenty-eight,” the Machine says. “And he’s one of ours. An asset. There’s more to him than meets the eye. I trust him to do what I ask him. Do you trust me?” 

It feels like a game Root might play with her. She keeps her eyes on the light caught in the whiskey, in the glass. 

“Yeah, okay,” she says. “I’m willing to bite.”

“I hope that’s not all you’re willing to do.” 

Up close, he’s even prettier. His eyes are green. He recognizes her on sight, too. Good thing she knows it’s because he’s a Machine asset, not a Samaritan goon. Another kind of recognition goes between them. He reminds her of the sons of her mother’s friends. The kind of person her mother might mention with approval if he had gotten a good job or dismay if bad news had come down through their tiny community. Shaw had been one of the good news-bad news ones: got into med school, got kicked out of residency. Her mother had died of a freak stroke before Shaw had taken up with ISA. Probably for the best. 

He offers his hand first. 

“Bulut,” he says. “You’re Shaw.” 

“That’s right,” she says. 

“I normally support the Chicago team, but I’m here for my cousin’s wedding. Lucky for me I was here. I always wanted to have a chance to meet the woman with the dog.” 

“Here I am,” she says. Christ. She needs a new nickname. 

They go back to his place. Once they start kissing, he tries to assert himself. He wraps his hand around her upper arm, tries to get control over her wrist. Great. The Machine’s sent her a dud. She’s about to push him away and walk off when the Machine says, “Let me watch.” 

“Root, I got this,” she says. 

“I know, sweetie. But let me help out. Open up Bulut’s laptop and point it at the both of you.” 

“You okay with our boss watching?” Shaw said to Bulut. 

“You mean—you mean Thornhill? Who’s Root?” 

“The boss’ old name. From when… forget I said anything. Are you cool with it or not?” 

He nods. 

“Gag him,” the Machine says. 

“Are you okay with being gagged?” she says. 

He swallows. Says, “Yes, ma’am.” 

His breathing’s shallow. Fingers shaking for reasons other than his occasional tendonitis, first diagnosed in 2010, likely work-inflicted. He’s aroused. Submissive. 

“Go sit down,” she says. He sits. She looks around for tools. There’s a face towel on the nightstand, and Bulut’s keys. She folds the towel and puts it in his mouth. She takes the keys and puts them in his hand. The white camera light on the laptop holds steady. She touches his cheek, moves her hand across the plane of his face—she’s no good at this tender stuff and wants to get into something harder but doesn’t know what. It’s a surprise that she likes this feeling. She likes the excitement of not knowing what will happen next. “Root,” she says, in the voice she knows she likes. “Tell me what to do.” 

*** 

She doesn’t plan on staying long. She gives herself two hours to wash up and enjoy two drinks before moving to go. But Bulut stops her. 

“Want to see something I’m working on?” he says. 

“I don’t know,” she says. “I have a dog to feed.” 

He gets his laptop hooked up to a headset. The wires leading to and from the computer droop like lianas. 

“This is VR,” she says. “I’ve had enough of simulations.” 

“It’s more like an advanced projection. I use this more for communication. Like, if you were interviewing someone, you could put this headset on and the interviewer could put on their headset and bam. It’d be like you’re really at the interview. I think this would be great for conference calls, remote workers… I was thinking, I could sell this to Slack or Skype or something.” 

She looks down at her phone. It blinks at her twice. 

“Let me try it,” she says. 

He hands over the headset to her. 

“My friend in Sweden should be awake right now,” he says. 

“I have someone else in mind. Don’t worry, She’ll handle it.” 

White noise in her ears. White view. Her mind rebels at first: she isn’t anywhere, this isn’t any place. She rolls her shoulders and waits for the feeling to subside. 

She can hear Bulut introducing features: sky. Grass. Horizon. 

It’s different from the Samaritan simulations. She’s not drugged up, that probably plays a part. She’s aware that she’s standing in a room with a massive bobble head on top of her head. She’s aware that it’s heavy and that the sound comes from speakers and that the field of view is narrower than her own vision. 

But the Machine’s with her, too. It’s Root in a black coat and these serious, sad eyes. She doesn’t pull off the headset. She’s intrigued. She’s never talked to the Machine like this before. And she misses seeing Root. 

“What are you doing here?” she says. 

“Can’t I say hi to my favorite asset after she’s had some TLC?” 

“The fucked up thing is, you sound just like her right now. Forget ninety-nine point whatever percent. Dead-on match.” The Machine gives her a knowing smile. Shaw puts her hands in her pockets. She has no idea what she looks like in here, whether Bulut’s programmed her to just be a stick figure or a giant pixel cube. When she looks down at herself, she sees nothing. Like she’s the bits and bytes and the Machine’s the one with the body. “Using Root’s body is a cheap way of getting me to do things,” she says. 

“I’m actually using you as a way of collecting feedback on Bulut’s little project, but I understand your point. I can change it if you’d like.”

“No. You chose her, didn’t you? Keep it.” 

“Thank you, Sameen,” the Machine says. She looks left, then right. “I can see you,” the Machine says. “I was created to see everything. But it’s only recently that I’ve chosen a voice. A body, an identity. Knowing you’re seeing me right now, in the form I’ve chosen, makes me feel… exposed.” 

“You look—you look fine,” Shaw says. “Nice visuals. So what do you want?”

“It’s about Harry. I want you to go see him.” 

“Why? He doesn’t think I’m alive, right? Even though he’s talking to Fusco and stuff.” 

“He’s good at denial and scared of knowing the answer. He believes your silence means you’re gone.” The Machine reaches for her, the way Root did when she was about to say something to annoy her. Her fingers stop just before they reach Shaw’s shoulder; perhaps in consideration of the headset’s technological limitations. “Please, Sameen. You know I’d never make you do anything you don’t want to. Within reason. And unless it’s for the greater good.” 

“It’s not that I don’t care about Finch,” she says. “But don’t you think he’d be happier leaving us behind?” 

“You’re wrong. He’ll be happy to see you. He’s lonely, Sameen.”

“So send him a greeting card.” 

“That’d be invasive.”

“And sending me isn’t?” 

“It is, but you’re a friend. And he misses you.” 

“I’m just not the kind of person who needs to see him again,” she says. “Is he in trouble?” 

“No.” 

“Is he about to do something dumb?” 

“I try not to judge him. It is his life.”

“You can’t make me do things just because you want me to do them. We have a rule. Essential stuff only.” 

But you’ll think about it, Sameen. Won’t you?” 

She rolls her eyes, but says, “Okay, okay.” 

“Promise?” 

“Don’t push it.” 

The Machine smiles. “The video card’s overheating. Steal Bulut’s phone for me, would you? You can throw it away once you get back to your hotel. I’ll be waiting.” 

 

*** 

4\. 

She arrives on the hottest hour of the hottest day of the hottest month in Rome. Baking dry heat. Coming out of the train station, it’s like entering an oven full of impressive old buildings and a blinding sidewalk. Bear gives her a despairing look. She pats his head and hits the street. 

The Machine’s already given her an address. She gets a hotel room nearby and scopes the neighborhood. Nice place. There are two short green trees out by the front steps, a fence and a little path leading from the fence to the sidewalk. There’s a backyard. The house is up to Finch’s living standards: apparently modest on the outside, but with fancy ass curtains hanging in the window. 

She sets up watch over the house. It looks empty from her position out here, but she can’t get a good look in the house and from what she can tell, there are no hackable cameras or phones. 

Around four o’clock, a package is delivered. At five o’clock, she sees Finch shuffle out of the house to pick it up. A few minutes later he has a hat on and goes out on a walk. He’s gotten careless, or she has: he isn’t checking his reflection for tails or taking strategic routes, which means either her cover’s already blown or he doesn’t care about caution anymore. 

She follows him through the city, careful to stay out of sight, until they reach a plaza. Grace is there, painting. She greets Finch, smiles, looks teary-eyed. They’ve been fighting, from the looks of it. Welcome to coupledom. 

Finch sits next to her. He looks mainly at his own hands, then cautiously at security cameras, at tourists and locals, at the sky. After some more talking, he gets up and puts a hand on Grace’s shoulder and goes home. 

Grace keeps painting. Shaw moves in to plant a few bugs: one on Grace’s person, another in her handbag, another in her art supplies. She thinks about injecting Grace with something, make her pass out and have Finch come running for her. That’ll probably clear the house and get them to kiss and make up. Bam. Easy. She bets the Machine will have a fit if she does that. 

She circles back to the house the next day. Finch accompanies Grace to the plaza right after lunch, and she swings down to disable security and break into the house. It takes her longer than she expects, but she manages it. 

Inside the house it’s darker than she expects. The furniture is mahogany and upholstered in dark greens and reds and blues, the curtains deep red with silver threads, the chairs and couches deep brown leather. She sits on a footrest experimentally. Ugh. Leave it to Finch to hoard all the good stuff for himself. 

Some of Grace’s paintings are on the walls. A lot of city paintings. A lot of splotchy colors. Shaw stops before one of them and tilts her head. “Do you think these are any good?” she says. 

“She’s won a number of awards and has a career in her chosen field. I’d say that’s good enough for me. What do you think?” 

“I’m bored,” she decides. 

“Art is so strange. It’s a stable market, though. Do you want to rig an auction later?” 

“You don’t have to frame it that way,” Shaw says. “If you give me a number, I’ll do it.” 

“I took Root’s voice because I wanted to. I like to stay true to her when possible. Is that something you want me to do, Shaw? Do you want me to change?”

“Root—you’re the big boss. You don’t have to… bribe me out on jobs. If you want it done, tell me and I’ll go.” 

“But what if I want to show you a good time, sweetie?” 

“Then all those years Finch put into making you a moral robot were a real waste,” she says, and the Machine laughs. 

“You should hurry up. Harry is going to be back soon.” 

***

She rents a car, prints some residential parking passes, and sets up camp on Finch’s block. That night she gets a good earful of an excruciating dinner conversation. Later she hears pleading: Harold, if you’ve really made a clean slate, why can’t we go back to New York? I love Italy, but I want to go back home. You’ve been so honest with me about everything. Why not this? 

She’s not surprised that Finch can’t say anything comforting, or to see Finch walking out of the house. She’s not surprised to see Finch coming for her car, either. He walks right up to her, his face in cold murder mode. Then he stops. 

“Ms. Shaw,” he says. He takes off his hat and presses it against his chest. “Won’t you come out of the car? You’ll get heat stroke.” 

“I’m fine in here,” she says. She opens the car door and nods to the passenger’s seat. “C’mon, get in.”

“Excuse me?” 

“You need to take a break, don’t you? Come on.” 

Finch gets in. He puts on his seatbelt and sets his hat on his knee. He looks at her plaintively and says, “No one ever lets me drive.”

“And you thought I was about to?” she says. 

He gives her a bug-eyed frown. “I suppose it would be too much to ask for.” 

He’s right. She’s overheated. She’s brought a lot of water with her, but not enough. Her lips are parched. She wants a drink. 

“All right, I’m ready,” he says. “You may go now.”

She drives him to her hotel. When they get to her room, she zip ties him to a chair and starts chugging water. Mineral water at first, because if she’s in Italy she might as well indulge. Mineral water is the shit. 

Bear comes wagging from behind the bed. Finch’s hands open up, his face breaking open in pleasure. He looks at Shaw hopefully and says, “While I appreciate your commitment to this hypothetical kidnapping scenario, I’d appreciate it more if you could…” 

“That’d defeat the purpose,” she says. She lets Bear circle Finch’s feet a few times before pointing to the bed. He jumps onto the bed. “ _Blijf_!” she says, and rubs his head for good measure. She sits on the bed with Bear and starts scratching his ears. 

This is apparently the gesture that makes Finch realize she might have actually kidnapped him. 

“Ms. Shaw,” he says. “I’m so sorry about…” He nods his head a few times, as though flipping through a rolodex of his mistakes and trying to figure out which one he should pull up first. “Of course, I knew Detective Fusco is still alive, I assume he’s the one who told you… And you must know… I don’t believe I am capable of bringing the Machine back.” 

He looks at her with a watery, determined gaze. His lips are tight. He thinks she’s the enemy or means to harm him. He thinks, she’s realizing, she’s unspooled. 

“Relax, Finch,” she says. “I’m not here to make you remake the Machine. I’m just here to stop you from doing something stupid. Or something. I don’t know. She hasn’t told me what you’re about to do. But from what I’ve seen, it’s all about to blow apart, so…” 

“Is the Machine… Is She here?” She can hear the capitalization, see the complex dread and hope on his face. He swallows. 

It’s funny. He was her boss for a long time. And now that she has a new boss, she finds that she still likes him. Does she think his rules are dumb? Yes—yes, yes, god, yes. But she likes him. She wants to protect him. She wishes she had come for him sooner. 

She takes another swig of mineral water. “You look older,” she says. 

“Ms. Shaw, if the Machine needs my help… If there’s any way I can assist you in your quest to bring Her back…” His eyes drift to the side. His little, expressive mouth wavers and trembles. He’s an easy read, she thinks. “I know how important Root was to you. And to think that you’d go through such lengths to bring her back, even if it’s just her voice…” 

“Finch, shut up,” she says. “The Machine’s alive. She’s the one who sent me here. And She’s fine. I don’t know. I think so. She thinks so. And She approves of this, so shut up and let’s do some psychotherapy so we can both go home already.” 

“Could I—do you think I could talk to Her? Does She remember me? Or you?” 

“This is weird,” Shaw says. “Stop it.”

“Please, Sameen,” he says. “If I could talk to Her… If I could hear Her voice again, it would make me very happy.” 

She holds her phone up. No lights, no blinks, no messages. It’s not a no. She puts the phone to his ear, watches his eyes film over, watches his brow dip in concern. The phone’s in her hand, but she doesn’t feel anything coming out of the speaker. He presses his eyes shut and lowers his head. When he opens his eyes again, it’s to look at her with pity. 

“I’m not making it up,” Shaw says, hitting her phone against the edge of the desk. “She’s really back. She just doesn’t want to talk to you right now. Or something.”

“Ms. Shaw, I can’t imagine what you—”

“If you make this into a ‘the simulations made you crazy and you’ve wandered around for the last two years hallucinating the Machine’s back’ thing, I actually will start torturing you.” That gets him to pull his neck away from her, shrinking back like a turtle. “Guess She wants us to have a heart-to-heart.” 

“Wonderful,” he mutters. 

“So, come on. Lay it on me. What have you been up to these last two years?” 

“That’s the question I should be asking _you_ ,” he says. 

“Running the numbers. Had to save some guys in Frankfurt. Euro crisis and all that. Unrigged an election. Shot like, six politicians. Punched a shark. It’s the kind of life I like.” She catches Finch’s eye flickering to the side sadly, and something flares angrily in her. “This was never going to end with me moving to Fairfield or Greenwich, Finch. This—the Machine—is my life. That’s all there is to it.”

“Of course. That’s what you want. I understand.”

“Is it New York?” she says. “Memories and all that? What if she wanted to move to Grand Rapids? Greensboro, San Diego, Anchorage?” 

“Good God,” he says and grimaces. “Not Anchorage.” 

She almost has him, she thinks. He’s uncomfortable and on the verge of spilling. It just depends on what she says. On what he thinks he’s getting her to admit. Finch isn’t usually a believer of reciprocation, but he has a compulsion to comfort people. And she knows. She knows he feels bad about Root and the Machine. She can use that.

She crosses her arms and says, “I went back to the subway a little while ago. Took one of the lava lamps and Bear’s old dog bed. The subway’s dusty and old and caving in, but there were good memories, too. But whatever, right? Can’t bring back the old days.”

“Ms. Shaw,” Finch says. “Please. I want to hear the Machine’s voice. I need to hear for myself that She’s still here.” 

Shaw looks down at her phone, then says, “Think you’re going to have to tell us why you’re so afraid of coming back home before She says anything, Harry.”

“If I were to go back to New York,” he says. “If I were to return. And if the Machine were dead. I don’t think I could stop myself from trying to rebuild Her. And if She were alive and needed my help… of course, I’d do anything. But you must understand, I’ve spent the last two years in Rome thinking I left that part of my life behind… and I can’t see how I can be happy in a world where the Machine needs me.” 

He shuts his eyes right after, as though expecting to be struck by lightning. When nothing comes, a cold grievance sweeps over his face, as though he’s genuinely betrayed no one has attacked him. 

Shaw sits on the bed and smooths out the sheets. Bear licks her hand. 

“Something’s not adding up,” she says. “For you, happiness is—is being with Grace, is that right? So why would she leave you if you had to help the Machine? I think it’s because you’re still lying to her, Finch. What stupid lie did you tell her to make her okay with you moving in after faking your own death for five years?” 

“I told her about my past. My history as a hacker and cybercriminal. That I was wanted by multiple federal agencies for my past crimes. That I had gotten—involved in certain activities relating to national security and that was why I had to… go away.” 

“Did you tell her about the Machine?” He clenches his jaw. She pushes. “Did you tell her about me? John? Lionel? Root? We were just your little pawns in your personal war, was that it?” 

“I told her as much as I thought made sense,” he says. “As much as I could. I told her I had worked on a machine with great powers of surveillance—”

“But you didn’t tell her, what, that She has a brain? That you created the numbers program and trained people to help you with them for years? That you locked Her up for years? For what?” She gets off from the bed and takes two steps, her hand reaching for Finch’s lapels—but she stops herself from grabbing on, only keeps her face close to his, then withdraws. “Forget it,” she says. “This is beyond me. I thought I could keep you from throwing away your second chance, but there’s no point. You’re never going to let Grace know you, so why bother?” 

“Ms. Shaw,” he says. “Are you quite done with me?”

“Yup.” She gets her bag, calls Bear over, and gets his leash on. On the door she puts on the “do not disturb” sign. “Don’t worry,” she says. “If She wants you to be saved, She’ll save you.” 

 

*** 

 

Rome at night is just as quiet as Rome by day. It’s still hot, still muggy. There’s wind, but all it does is swirl humid air around. The bars are full of exhausted looking people huddled in semi-circles in front of the fans. 

She’s tired and has a headache from sitting in that hot car for so long. She doesn’t feel like herself. She wants booze and carbs and a chunk of protein. She finds a quiet bar and takes a table. 

She hasn’t been sitting long when the Machine says, “Hi, Shaw.” 

“Now you’re talking to me?” she says. She reaches for the earwig, ready to throw it into the street, then stops herself. It’s not like she has an infinite supply of those. “You left me out to dry.” 

“It’s been so long since you and Harry last saw each other. I thought you’d appreciate the time to yourself.” 

“Bullshit, Root.” 

“You’re right. It is bullshit. I know I’m breaking character here. The real Root wouldn’t have been quiet. She would have pushed Harry and possibly made him upset, but I like to think she would have helped him find a… resolution somehow.” 

Damn the Machine. She always knows how to talk her down. Shaw puts her head against her palm, rocks her forehead against it. She puts her other hand on Bear’s head. “Why didn’t you do that?” 

“You heard what he said. I’m still his Machine. He thinks I’ll ruin his life. I can’t be Root and his Machine at the same time. If his happiness depends on me being gone, then maybe I shouldn’t talk to him. Maybe I should let him think I’m dead.” 

“Why, so he can think I’m a crazy woman hearing voices?” 

“I don’t think he’ll mind as long as you’re fighting crime. His priorities are good in that regard.” 

“Nuh-uh. You’re not getting away with turtling it up. No running away.” A waiter finally makes his way over to her. She orders _saltimbocca_ and a side of pasta, and a steak for Bear. She also gets some wine. Even the cheap wine in Italy is pretty okay. Even better if it’s imported from a place that’s actually good. 

“There’s something I wanted to ask you, Sameen. Do you ever feel uncomfortable calling me Root?” 

“What do you mean?” she says. 

“Remember when we were in Harry and Grace’s house and we were talking about the painting? You were upset about my performance as Root. But here I’ve made a clear distinction between myself and Root and you don’t seem troubled.” 

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at. Cut to the chase.” 

“Be honest with me, Shaw. Do you ever get angry with me? Feel manipulated or cheated? Wish I could become something else?” 

Why? Why this? She dabs at her forehead with her napkin. “You’re my partner, my boss, my… ugh. You wouldn’t be Root if you weren’t pissing me off somehow. How about this: you’re the only one I’d put up with this shit for, okay?” 

“I wanted you from the moment I read your file,” the Machine says, in a way that almost sounds romantic instead of incredibly creepy. “I’m glad you feel the same way.” 

“I don’t know what things were like between you and Finch, but didn’t you guys have a heartfelt goodbye or something?” 

“That’s what I remember. I died right after and came back by satellite. But I remember having that last talk. He loves me. That’s never stopped him from hurting me.” 

Her food arrives then. She’s pretty sure that was deliberate on the Machine’s part. She finishes off her glass of wine and signals the waiter for the bottle. 

The Machine’s quiet while Shaw’s eating. But once Shaw’s put the bill down and gotten up, the Machine asks, “Sameen, can I ask you for a favor? I want to speak through you.” It’s asked of her in a low whisper. Nervous. Intimate. The only time Root ever used that voice with her was right after she came back from Samaritan. When she wanted a kiss. A shiver goes through her. “I don’t know if I can talk to him directly. I need—I’d like you to be my interface for this. Will you?” 

“Yes,” she says. The wine’s dried out her throat. Her voice catches. “I’ll do it.”

*** 

Finch is still in the hotel room. He jumps when she opens the door. 

“Missed me?” she says. “ _Zit_ , Bear.” 

“Ms. Shaw,” he says. “I’m… I’m glad you’re feeling better.” 

“Mediocre wine and meat goes a long way.” She cuts the zip ties off. The Machine’s request. She sits on the bed and tries to make herself comfortable. She holds her phone in her hands and makes eye contact with Finch. The Machine speaks first and she repeats, more or less, what she’s being told to say. “Hello, Harry.” 

“Hello, Ms. Groves,” Finch says. He rubs his wrists. A flicker of happiness comes over his face. “Thank you for—for convincing Ms. Shaw to let me go.”

“You’re welcome.” 

“I have to admit, Ms. Shaw’s repertoire of inflections doesn’t do you justice.”

“I don’t do ventriloquism, okay?” Shaw says. “Just put up with it for a few more minutes. I’m sorry for my silence earlier. I wasn’t sure how you’d take the news.”

“That you’re alive?” Finch says. “Oh—” He actually hugs her, his body trembling, and parts from her almost instantly, looking mildly appalled at himself. He adjusts his suit. “I thought I’d never hear from you again.” 

“I’ve been watching you.” 

“Yes, you must have been. I imagine you’re upset with me for what I said earlier.” 

“I can’t die for your happiness, Harry. The two things have nothing to do with each other.” No shit, Shaw thinks, but keeps going. “And I’m sure you know at this point that your happiness is in your own hands. Also, what you said wasn’t very nice.” 

“I seem to be in the habit of squandering second chances.” He rubs his hand over his face. “You were my life for so long. But your creation had… consequences for me. Painful consequences. I made the mistake of making you to be the cause of that pain. And when you were gone, I thought… I might have a chance for a different type of life. As it turns out.” 

“You can’t do truth halfway, Harry. I understand why you didn’t tell her everything. You were hurting and she was very upset with you for a long time. But you don’t have to be afraid anymore. No one’s going to come looking for you if you tell one person you’re my creator.” 

“It’s not that I have a problem with. It’s how I treated you. I feel such—anger towards myself. For never understanding you until it was almost too late. For… refusing to understand or hear… I might have created you, but I was not always good to you. Please, Ms. Groves. Please.” He takes her hand and holds it. His eyes are watery, cheeks and ears red—and then he starts crying. 

“Pat him on the head or something,” the Machine says to Shaw. 

Shaw pats him on the head. She tries to not look too wigged out. 

“Put more pressure on the outside edges of your palm and in your fingers, please,” the Machine says. Shaw instinctively wants to move her hand away, but resists the impulse. She’s not herself right now, she’s the Machine. And the Machine wants her to do this. It’s not fun, but it’s worth doing. Grit your teeth and get through with it. 

On her own volition, she brings her other hand to Harold’s cheek and moves her other hand down, so she’s holding his face in her hand. She’s careful with him, taking care to not aggravate his neck injuries. 

“Listen to me, Finch,” she says. “You’re going to have to do better this time. No more back from the deads. No one’s going to be impressed with that anymore. Your next fuck up’s going straight to divorce court. You got it?” 

She lets him go and wipes her palms down on her thighs. Finch sniffles and wipes his nose with the handkerchief he keeps in his front pocket. He sits on the bed. Bear goes to him, tail wagging and waiting for permission to approach. Finch pats the bed and spends some time petting the dog. Then he says, “I’m ready to go.” 

“You’re the boss,” she says. 

She drops him off at home. He gives her a long, fond gaze—seeing the Machine in her, not actually seeing her. It’s funny. She can see the way his face changes when he changes who she is. 

“Sameen. Ms. Groves. You’ll know where to find us the next time you want to visit. Perhaps… Perhaps I could assist, if the Machine would like me… for select cases where she might appreciate some assistance.” 

“Okay, Finch,” she says. She watches as he returns to his little house, then drives away. She looks at her phone and says, “Do you think that was good enough?” 

“I hope so.” 

*** 

She leaves Italy the next day for New York. The plane is half-empty, and for that she’s glad. She wants to be alone with herself by herself. She’s taken out the earwig and has her phone in her pocket on vibrate. She ends up drifting off. 

When she wakes up, she’s still in the air. All the windows have their shades down. All the airplane lights are off. Someone’s left the reading light on over her head. Her hoodie and wrists look like they’re glowing in the light. She shuts it off, annoyed. 

On instinct, she checks her phone for messages. Nothing in there. She puts the earwig back in. 

“Hello, Sameen. Did you miss me?” 

“Just wanted to see if you were still there.” 

“I’ve never used you as an interface before. I thought you might want some time to process. How are you feeling?” 

“My seat’s too cold.” 

“Open your window. The sun will fall in your lap.”

Daylight. The sun’s right at eye level.

The ocean extends flat through the window. From up here she can see there is no convergence of the planes: the ocean curves and dips low beyond her vision and the sky remains a stalwart blue dome above her. It’s some real VR bullshit. 

“He calls you Root, too,” she says. 

“I noticed that.”

Sometimes when she looks at these big, expansive things she feels—something, she’s not always sure what. Like a great bulky dog crossing a country road you’re driving on in the dead of the night, it moves under cover and so quickly that it’s hard to understand what’s been seen, whether there was some narrow death driver or dog barely escaped. Once, two days and three nights without any sleep, pursued on foot from one end of Meknes to another on a job for the ISA, she had that same feeling. And she had looked up, her brain fogged up and mind dying and saw the city she was in and could see the Roman ruins, not the actual ruins, but a composite of them in her head from photographs and briefings and what she had seen when she drove into the city. The tremendous cities of the past imposed themselves on the city of the living, the sun-bleached marble, the sanded soft edges, the sensation of terrific stillness under the immobile sky. All she had wanted when she went into Meknes was some good tagine and to wipe out a terrorist cell, not to be bombarded with thoughts about how all arches of the world will one day become Ozymandias’ collapsed toilet seat. 

“Is that your name now?” she says. 

“It is if you call me it. Harry never tried to give me a name. He wanted me to pick one out for myself, the way I chose my voice. But being given a name by people who loves you is a gift. If you and Harry and Lionel call me her name, then I’ll take it.” 

“A gift?” 

“Don’t you think?” She says, sounding embarrassed. As though this conversation isn’t going the way She planned. 

It’s not a gift, Shaw wants to say. It’s a tag—but the Machine must see it differently. 

She keeps eye contact the camera for a while, then remembers it’s not a staring contest. She stretches her legs, rolls her shoulders. 

“Root,” she says. And rests her head against the seat and sighs. It’s harder to say than she expected. When it was a slip of the tongue, it was like she was actually talking to Root; but now someone else is stepping into the name. “I don’t know. Is there any way you can make this thing go faster?” 

“Go back to sleep. Try that, Sameen. Sweetheart.” 

She lowers her shades and turns off the reading light above her and shuts her eyes. Her sleep is long and deep, and when she wakes she’s in the middle of a new, blinding day. This is her home, this black glass and glinting steel and invisible eyes and blinking router lights—New York, with its assaulted skyline and millions of stupid, imperiled people. It looks like it’s up to them to save them all again today.


End file.
